Archive for October, 2013

Marriage Poem # 837 by Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on October 17, 2013 by Scot

OUR LOVE

is like that expensive
aqua bath mat overloading
lint trap in dryer even after
dozen of washes i scrape
excess into garbage bags
of disappointment make me
wonder why i didn’t purchase
cheap flashy turquoise one
use it then replace when thread
bare like my discarded lovers

Uncle Fred by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin on October 17, 2013 by Scot

for F.N. Wrightfred

Sorry,
it’s the meds,
he said

an endless
pharmaceutical
battle

with
the body
of one good
sailor

Vietnam
Vet
PTSD

and never
enough
cunt & whiskey

to make the
monkeys
stop singing
haunting
war songs

only
the art
released
the crazy steam
inside
the troubled valves

pictures
and poems,
stories
and the crack
of
the American beer can

as Uncle Fred
laughed at it all
and told us
to …

piss on the pope.

Larry’s Pinnacle Moment by Scott Owens

Posted in Scott Owens with tags on October 17, 2013 by Scot

after Tim Peeler

 

Even Larry had to wonder
what the hell they were thinking
to invite someone like him to Fenway Park
to read what he calls poetry in front of owners
and lawyers and serious sportswriters
and baseball stadium poet laureates.

They must not have known that he was born
from almost nothing and still had almost nothing
except the good sense his daddy gave him
and an appreciation of good whiskey.

They must not have known, until he pulled up
in front of the posh Commonwealth Hotel
and as the bellboy picked up his one
cheap bag, he asked, “Ya’ll know which way
it is to the bar?” that for him poetry
wasn’t Take Me Out to the Ball Game
or Casey at the Bat, but much rougher stuff,
busted mill house porch, contours
of darkness hovering over terraced field.

They must not have known that for him
the real heart of baseball would always beat
on a Legion field next to a cotton mill
somewhere north of Cherryville, North Carolina.

They must not have known that even with baseball
which he knew to be one of the few good things
left, he’d tell it the way it was,
full of greed and labor law, and mostly memory
of how things couldn’t be anymore.

harbouring thoughts of escape by Matthew J. Hall

Posted in Matthew J. Hall with tags on October 17, 2013 by Scot

I walked the riverside route yesterday
listened to the water and the clinking
of moored boats

wondered about sea gulls who stand so close to the edge
wondered about the undercurrent, the temperature and drowning

If I fell in, I thought to myself
I wouldn’t have to go to work
I think I would rather go by the hands of the river
than the flames of the fire

maybe I wont drown, I considered
maybe I’ll just get wet and cold
a temporary solution
I’ll live on, but today something will have happened

I leant on the black railings
looked across the water at a young busker playing an old tune
a simple blues formation
she sang like a beautiful ghost
she sang about drowning and burning

I walked around the harbour and dropped some change in her hat
I wanted to tell her something, only I couldn’t find the words
but by the sound of her guitar and the shapes of her song
I have a deep running suspicion, that she already knew

____________

Matthew J. Hall is a writer who lives in Bristol, England. For more about him visit www.screamingwithbrevity.com

A Truth by Winnie Star

Posted in Winnie Star with tags on October 17, 2013 by Scot

We are born into this body
It may change shape
It may gain wisdom
It may stagnate

When a truth is known
We rise to the occasion
And hope such truth
Brings with it
A blessing

In the midst of the earthquake
Our bodies crawl to a safe spot
And when the shaking ends
A sigh begins and we start over again

Looking for a truth
Like the heart and mind does everyday…

The Art Of Violence by Michael Grover

Posted in Michael Grover with tags on October 8, 2013 by Scot

There is no Poetry in violence
There is no violence in Poetry
Violence is not Poetic
There is no beauty . . .

There is nothing in politics
Powertrips are empty delusion
Hell we’re Poets,
We should despise politicians
Always policing the grounds of something
Is nothing sacred
Little boys wantin’ to be men

Look away,
There is no beauty here to speak of
Only bitterness
There is no Poetry in this
Don’t write violently
Violence is not worth your time
Write viciously

TOOL BOX by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on October 8, 2013 by Scot

last night while I was fighting insomnia
the demons created a toolbox
inside my head
it is filled with every moment
of my life
from the womb
to the pending tomb

dead poets creep out at night
old flames appear
at the best years of their life
smother me with plush breasts
press me to their loins

the toolbox has no lock
to keep unwanted visitors out
ghosts mock my  past misdeeds
cavort with gypsy bands
travel up and down my spine

at the darkest moment of night
Miles Davis plays his wailing sax
inside the symphony of my head
muslims wail Koran prayers
the Vatican closes its doors
a hurricane forms inside my brain
the fat lady at the opera does acrobats
from a high tension wire

my woman says I’m damaged goods
leaves the door open on her way out
a used car salesman carries
a frayed copy of Death of a Salesman
in the palm of his sweaty hands
I dial the Jehovah Witness hotline
it is busy 24/7
I call 9 1 1
I am put on hold
my poems turn into cue balls
explode on a green felt pool table
at Gino and Carlo’s Bar
my woman thinks she’s Buddha
keeps her legs crossed

a witch doctors appears beside my bed
with a necklace of human bones
the voodoo doll in her hands
looks a lot like me

at midnight a gypsy woman shuffles
a deck of tarot cards
God calls in his marker
turns me into an aging Samuria
with a dull bladed sword
to fend off my enemies

the poems inside me turn outlaw
hold me for a ransom I can’t pay
the insatiable night
eats my thoughts
the years rattle inside my head
like a bag of marbles

I toss and turn
pray for sleep
but God has no time for insomniacs
the few hours granted me
lined-up like shots of tequila
at a honky tonk brothel

when sleep finally comes
I am left feeling
like bits and pieces of a ship-wreck
washed up along the shore
of an island that doesn’t exist
the tool box empty
as a tramp’s turned out pockets